


A Little Clarity

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Happy Ending, M/M, Marital Issues, Misunderstandings, Mob boss Aziraphale, The ineffable husbands have mortal friends, but not really, established relationships - Freeform, outsider pov, relationships are all about communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:07:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Crowley makes a new friend (against his will) at a charity fundraising event, and things escalate from there.(3rd instalment of the Carlton & Wilson stories)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands - Relationship, OC Relationships
Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545919
Comments: 130
Kudos: 1502





	1. A Little Clarity

Clara's wife was very busy. She understood why - she took her job very seriously, after all - but it left her with quite a bit of free time on her hands in the evenings. With not many friends who cared for nights out, she turned her hand to crafts at first, and became a very proficient knitter before growing bored and moving on to baking. She found she was quite good at that, too. Her wife's close work colleague was her biggest fan, and he'd bargain his soul for a slice of her apple pie. 

He wasn't the only one. It made her a force to be reckoned with at charity bake sales, and she was always in high demand at fundraising events at work. She'd been using her free time at home to prepare for the local Youth LGBTQ+ charity's anniversary fundraiser for weeks, and was crestfallen when her wife said she couldn't come.

"You've been at work late every night for three weeks. I'd think you were cheating on me if I wasn't so sure that James would dob you in for it," she said, crossing her arms to glare across the kitchen table when she'd heard.

"You know I would never. I just need a break in this case, Clara, please," she begged. "You should see the state of the other detectives at work. Only Wilson and me know the half of what's going on."

She rolled her eyes. "Why don't you ever call him by his first name?" she said. "He's your best friend, for God's sake! I'm shocked you don't address me as Mrs Carlton at this rate."

"It's a professional courtesy, Mrs Carlton," she shot back, sensing a chance to make her laugh. 

She couldn't fight the smile that tugged at her lips. "Oh, fine. You got me," she said, shaking her head. "I'll make some excuses for you at the anniversary fundraiser, okay? But you have to come home at the usual time for at least a week afterwards, no excuses."

"Deal," she replied, giving her a peck on the lips.

The anniversary fundraiser was like an entire Pride march, condensed into one village hall-sized venue. Pride flags of all kinds hung from the walls, along with posters around the walls explaining them all, and glittery streamers hanging from the ceiling. Displays were set up for all the goods on offer, all the proceeds of which would go straight to the charity; there was art, baked goods, flags, books, and later on there'd be an auction for various luxury hampers and a romantic weekend for two. She breathed in the atmosphere as soon as she stepped inside, and she felt instantly safe.

She set her pies down on the table beside all the other baked goods, and began to mingle. She'd met plenty of friends through events like this, and she was always open to making more. Not long after the event had got into full swing, she caught a dark figure lurking around by the refreshments table. Sipping from her tea, she began to watch him from the corner of her eye. Living with a London detective for enough years would make anyone paranoid, and this man stuck out like a sore thumb in a room full of rainbows. The dark glasses, the black clothes, the sullen expression... he looked like he was trying to fade into the background. Judging by the way he was glancing around with tiny movements of his head, he was scanning the room too, waiting for something. A spark of anger ignited in her chest. If he thought for a second that he was going to disrupt this event, in any way, he had another thing coming. She smirked, beginning to make her way over to him. It was probably a good thing her wife wasn't here, or she'd have made such a fuss over going to confront him.

Not that Clara ever confronted anyone impolitely. "Hey there," she said chirpily, putting on her brightest smile and imposing herself directly in front of the strange man.

"Er, hi," he replied, leaning back slightly in surprise. His lip twitched, and he looked around the room a little more frantically. "Can I help you with something..?"

"I was just wondering what you were up to, over here all by your lonesome," she said airily. He was already beginning to sense the hard edges beneath her friendly words. "I'm Clara, by the way."

She held out her hand and, after a moment's hesitation, he shook it. "Anthony," he replied. "And I'm not up to anything."

"No? You won't mind me introducing you to a few people, then," she said, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging him into the crowds. The more people who knew his face and name, the less likely he'd be to cause trouble.

"Ngk! Wait," Crowley protested, but it was too late. He had been waiting for Aziraphale to come back by the refreshments table; he'd ventured onto the floor above to have a poke around in the chapel, which had been set up with a stunning floral display for the fundraiser. He'd have liked to go, but consecrated ground being as it was, he said he'd just wait downstairs. 

He began to haltingly introduce himself to the different groups clustered around the hall, never able to escape Clara's iron grip on his elbow. She eventually stopped moving him around, and settled into a conversation with a small group of older women who were here to learn more about the LGBTQ+ community for the sake of their grandchildren. 

"My grandda - um, grand _child_ , I mean, told me that they were gender-fluid yesterday and I'm not quite sure what it means," one said, directing the question at Clara, who had been quite helpful so far.

"It means their gender changes," Crowley cut in thoughtlessly before Clara had a chance. He swallowed nervously as all eyes turned to him. "Er - you know, it's different for everyone. I'm genderfluid, but I don't change very often. Might not be the same for your grandkid."

"Oh. Thank you, dearie," she said, patting his arm with one wrinkled hand. "I thought you'd be letting your wife here do all the talking tonight."

Both Crowley and Clara turned bright red. "Uh - no, no," Clara stuttered, shaking her hands as if to bat the suggestion out of the air.

"We aren't married," Crowley said tensely. "I have a husband."

"And I have a wife," Clara added quickly. 

The old woman pressed a hand to her cheek. "Oh, bugger. Terribly sorry," she said, quite embarrassed herself. 

"It's no trouble. Anthony, more tea?" Clara said, hoping the old ladies couldn't see that both their cups were still three-quarters full.

"Sounds good," he said, and they both quickly made their escape. He cast a glance over his shoulder at them once they were out of earshot. "Well, that went poorly."

"Don't be a drama queen. It was an innocent mistake," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Says the woman who ran away," he replied, coming to a halt again right back where they started at the refreshments table. "Why is it you insisted on parading me around half the fundraiser, anyway? They're not auctioning _me_ off tonight, I hope you realise."

She laughed awkwardly and shrugged. "You looked really shifty over here, I'll be honest. I was just making sure you weren't up to no good."

"Well, I usually am, but I'm not homophobic if that's what you're asking," he said dryly, taking a swig from his tea. "Just ask my husband. I get up to all sorts of trouble at home trying to get his attention off his bloody books."

She hummed sympathetically. "Mine's a bit like that. She's very committed to her work," she said. "She should have been here tonight."

He opened his mouth to offer some awkward, fumbling attempt at comfort, but was cut off by another voice. "Oh, _there_ you are!" Aziraphale said, weaving out of the crowds. "I've been looking for you, you sneaky thing, you. Who's this?"

"My new wife, according to those old women over there," he replied flatly, gesturing vaguely across the room. "Sorry, angel, you're out of luck."

He frowned. "Pardon?"

Clara tutted and shook her head. "You weren't lying about being a troublemaker, were you?" she said to Crowley, who just smirked. She shook Aziraphale's hand with a polite smile. "I'm Clara. You must be Anthony's husband."

"Yes. I must say, I'm surprised to see him speaking to anyone," he said. "He's usually quite nervous at these things."

Crowley spluttered. "I'm not nervous. I don't get nervous."

Clara and Aziraphale both fixed him with incredulous, knowing glances. He huffed, averting his eyes with a light flush on his cheeks. "My name is Aziraphale, by the way," the angel said, turning back to Clara. 

The three of them chatted pleasantly until the auction came about, at which time they sat in a row of three near the front. That was when Clara began to take notice of something else about them. She was first clued into their wealth when Aziraphale ruthlessly outbid everyone for two of the hampers (one was full of organic pears, soft cheeses and crackers; the other was a basket of artisan breads). He made a put for the basket of tropical fruits and sweets, too, but Crowley pinned his arm down after his first bid.

"You've had two already, angel, calm down," he hissed quietly in a voice she wasn't supposed to hear. "Let someone else have the rest."

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. "Ah. Yes, I suppose you're right."

Clara smiled into her tea. They were a sweet couple, and very well-matched. She hoped her marriage would always be as happy as theirs. She sat back and enjoyed the auction, not intending to bid on anything herself. She'd spent a bit here and there on some paintings, and that was enough to feel satisfied that she'd done her bit for the event. Her attention began to drift, and didn't come back until she heard the auctioneer open the final bid.

"Now, for the big ticket item of the night: the romantic getaway in the country, starting at a minimum bid of two hundred pounds..." he said. Someone at the back waved their hand. "I have two hundred from the back. Can I have three hundred? Three hundred, yes, the gentlemen in the blue suit. Any advance on three? Three fifty? Yes, the lady with the fur jacket..."

The bid escalated nicely, soon pushing the limits of reasonability. It was just a weekend in a cottage somewhere, Clara thought to herself. It was great that it was raising so much money for charity, but if she really wanted a holiday that badly she'd at least look for a cheap one. It was only two days, after all, in a standard, quaint little holiday cottage.

"I have six fifty. Six fifty, can I get seven? Seven hundred? No?" the auctioneer said, beginning to pick up the gavel. "That's six hundred and fifty pounds for the weekend getaway going to the lady in the back row. Going once, going twice..."

"One thousand," Crowley cut in loudly. The auctioneer reeled.

"Sorry, sir, was that a bid?" he said hesitantly. Clara leaned forward, eyebrows shooting up as she looked across in disbelief. Aziraphale only looked mildly taken aback, as if he ought to have expected this, really.

"Yep. One thousand," he confirmed, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. A soft murmur of surprise went up around the room.

"Well, that is a turn-up. Any advance on one thousand pounds?" he said, looking around the room. No one said a peep. "Going once, going twice... and sold, for one thousand pounds to the gentleman in the sunglasses."

The bidding concluded itself, and the crowds began to break up. Aziraphale immediately turned to his husband. "Were the theatrics really necessary, dear?" he said, with fond exasperation. "You could have just bid seven hundred and you would have had it."

"It's for charity. They could always use an extra grand, and it's not like we're struggling, is it?" he said with a shrug. 

Clara let out a laugh, drawing their attention back to her. "Sorry. I was just thinking how funny it would have been if you'd have bid one thousand right out of the gate."

Crowley gaped, and threw up his hands in frustration. "I should have done that!" he cried, kicking himself. "That would have put the wind up the auctioneer, wouldn't it?"

Aziraphale tutted, dusting himself off as he stood up. "Oh, I can see you two are going to be the very best of friends," he said with a wry smile. 

"Us redheads have to stick together," Clara said.

"Yeah, angel," Crowley agreed, crossing his arms to mirror her body language.

"Oh, dear..."

Carlton came home to a quiet house that night, though she noticed the lamplight bleeding through the upstairs curtains as soon as she pulled in the driveway. She smiled. The office had left her sore, jaded and in desperate need of some affection. She hoped Clara would still be awake when she got upstairs; she'd been known to fall asleep with an open book on her chest before now.

She was in luck. Clara was sat up, flicking through a magazine when she came into the bedroom. "Hey there, stranger," she said playfully, pulling her glasses down her nose to give her a flirtatious look. "Come to visit have we?"

"Humph," she replied eloquently, pulling off her jeans and collapsing onto the bed without bothering to remove her shirt. She wrapped her arms around Clara's waist, settling her head against her side with a sigh. 

With a deeply fond sigh, she began to stroke her hair. "Glad you're home, honey," she murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of Carlton's head.

"Did you have a good time at the fundraiser?" she asked.

"I did, actually," she said, rubbing gentle circles on her temples, as if she could tell that she'd been developing a headache for at least half an hour. "I really hit it off with this guy called Anthony and his husband."

"Should I be jealous?" she joked, shuffling so her head was in her lap. 

"Maybe. A couple of old women assumed me and Anthony were married," she said, grinning, and Carlton gave a snort of laughter. "I got his number, actually. We're going out for drinks next week."

"That'll be nice," she murmured, beginning to doze off with her head in Clara's lap. Wrapped in the warmth and comfort of her bedroom, with the familiar rhythm of her breathing nearby, the tension began to unfurl from her body. The last hazy thought in her mind before she fell asleep was how glad she was that work never tended to follow her home. 

Clara had a great time with Crowley the next week. After a few drinks, they went back to the bookshop and dragged Aziraphale into their night, who eventually relented and agreed to open a bottle of wine. They finished it quickly between the three of them, and Clara finally noticed the time.

"Sssshit," she said, sitting up sluggishly. She squinted at the grandfather clock by the wall. "I didn't know it was late."

Aziraphale hummed, looking over his shoulder. "Oops," he said, with a tipsy giggle. "Call her a - a whotsit, Crowley."

"Cab. S'called a cab, angel," he said, wobbling to his feet to go in search of a phone to use. 

"Mph. That."

Crowley did manage to get hold a cab for Clara, and promptly fell asleep face-down on the sofa after announcing that vaguely to the room. "Feel like we should draw something on his face," she said, nudging Aziraphale's arm.

"He already has that snake on his face. No need," he replied, leaning back in his chair and enjoying the slight drunken haze. Clara gave a snort of laughter.

"Thanks for tonight, Zira," she said, half-sleepily. He hummed, looking over at her while some part of his mind squinted slightly at the new nickname. "I don't usually get a chance to have a night out, y'know?"

"It's quite all right. We don't have much company either, apart from one another," he said, nodding at the snoring demon across the room. 

She sighed, resting her chin on her fist. "I don't even have that much these days. Laura - my wife - is so obsessed with her bloody job..." she said, an uncharacteristic bitterness rearing its ugly head. The wine had certainly loosened her tongue. "I get it, it's important to her, but... I just wish she'd take a day off."

"You poor dear. Talk to her," he said, doing his best impression of a sober human who knew at least some things about relationships. 

"Maybe," she said, eyelids drooping. "But we get so little time in the evenings, I don't want to spend it arguing..."

There was a loud knock on the bookshop door, drawing their attention. "Must be my cab," Clara said, dragging her heavy limbs up and toward the door. 

"I'll walk you out," Aziraphale said, intentionally sobering himself up slightly. He rolled his shoulders, and followed her to the door. He'd heard bad things about these taxi drivers recently, and he'd make her stay if he was worried for her safety. 

The driver was an older lady, a little tired but very polite. Aziraphale didn't catch any significant flashes of evil in her soul, and smiled in relief, satisfied that Clara would be in safe hands. Now significantly more clear-headed, he gently touched her shoulder before she stepped outside.

"You are welcome back here any time you like. Just knock if the sign says closed," he said kindly. 

Clara smiled crookedly. "C'mere, you old softie," she said, pulling him into a tight hug. She gave a little sniffle, clearly very emotional. "Thank you, Zi."

"Yes. Very good," he said, wondering how his name kept getting progressively shorter as he smiled uncomfortably at the amused cab driver over Clara's head. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. "You ought to be going now, my dear. You are quite drunk."

Wilson sat across from Carlton at her desk, each of them beavering away at paperwork. Or, Wilson was. He was starting to notice that his partner was distracted, checking her phone every now and then, and staring into space. Eventually, he threw down his pen and sighed.

"Okay, something's up," he announced, fixing all his attention on her.

"What? No," she replied immediately, pocketing her phone and looking down at her papers again. He reached across and snatched them from under her nose.

"Yes," he said.

"Give those back," she said, holding out her palm with a scowl.

"Tell me what's on your mind and I will," he said, putting them on his lap.

She let out a low groan through gritted teeth. "Fine," she hissed. She scratched the back of her neck. "Clara went out last night and didn't get back until late. I don't mind that, she's a grown woman and she has a life of her own, but... you know how I worry. This city isn't safe, even with the Murphy siblings going AWOL. I stayed up until she got back, just to make sure she got home okay."

"Well, that's not so bad. She was fine. Why are you still thinking about it?" he said. Carlton had never been an overbearing wife, just a terrible worrier. The reason her and Clara got along so well was that Clara tended to ground her, and clear her head of all the paranoia she had rolling around. 

"She went out with some guy she met at the LGBT fundraiser. She's usually a good judge of character, so I wasn't worried, but she seemed so... odd, when she came home. She didn't seem to want to talk to me," she said, her voice turning suddenly quiet. "She had some water and went straight to bed. I tried to ask her if she had a good time and all the usual stuff, but I swear something was bothering her."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "That is a little weird. She's usually quite chatty," he said. "Who did you say she went out with?"

"The guy from the fundraiser I missed out on last week. His name's Anthony, I think she said, or maybe it was just Tony. I can't remember," she replied with a shrug. "I've never met him. The whole situation just seems so strange. I can't help but feel like something happened that night."

"Something bad?" he said, starting to become worried himself. He cared for Clara too; she was like a cool aunt to him, and they always enjoyed getting on Carlton's nerves together.

"I have no idea," she sighed. She looked back and forth surreptitiously, and leaned closer. "I'm not proud of this, James, but... I overheard her on the phone this morning. I stopped to listen for a second on my way out the door."

He raised his eyebrows at the sound of his first name from her mouth. "Right," he said, listening intently.

"She was talking to someone called Zi. I've never even heard that name before, I have no idea who they are," she said, her face creased with worry. "She was just saying thank you for last night, sorry for being so soppy and drunk, and that she hadn't had a chance to be honest with someone in months."

"Uh oh," he said with a grimace. "That... that sounds ..."

"Suspicious," she replied carefully, leaning back in her chair. She crossed her arms and sighed. "She's my wife, James, I want to trust her. I'm not jumping to any conclusions."

"But...?"

"But there's no reason I can't snoop around slightly, just to put my mind at rest," she finished, picking up her pen and holding out her hand. "Now give me back my paperwork."


	2. An Arrangement

Carlton began to take notice more and more of Clara's new friends. She was often texting Anthony, though Zi - his husband, she was relieved to discover - only ever spoke via phone call. She asked a few innocuous questions about the two men, and never seemed to get far.

"Whereabouts do they live?" she asked one evening over dinner.

"In London. It's not far from your office actually," she replied. "Zi has a business in the city, so it's easier for him not to commute."

"That must be very expensive. What does he do?" she said, twirling some pasta on her fork.

"They're pretty well off, yeah. They blew something like two grand between them at the fundraiser when I first met them. Zi sells antiques and collector's items, nothing that you'd be interested in," she said with a shrug. "Why the sudden curiosity? You hardly ever pry into other people's lives - unless you're at work."

She shrugged. "You seem to really like them and I don't even know what they look like. It's just a bit odd."

"They’re good guys. Anthony's a riot, and Zi's a good listener," she said, finishing her plate and picking up Carlton's as she made her way to the sink.

"I'm a good listener too, you know," she said, feeling slightly childish even as she said it.

Clara smiled wryly, and kissed the top of her head. "I know, but it's nice to have a friend too," she said. Carlton hummed reluctantly in agreement, staring at her back in worry as she began to wash the dishes.

One afternoon, Carlton sat behind her desk, reviewing evidence from a recent case. Things were starting to come together, and it was nice to have a straightforward case for once rather than the brain-melting mess of evidence that was organised crime. It seemed that Clyde and Morgan Murphy had skipped town, and not only that, but had dropped off the face of the earth entirely. No one had heard from them in months. Their drug trade had atrophied completely, and a whole network of thugs had been left leaderless and confused with no warning. It was good, but she couldn't help being suspicious. Were they planning something else? Where had they gone? Were they still alive? Did Fell and Crowley have something to do with it? No one knew the answers.

Her phone buzzed. She ignored it at first, until it buzzed again. With a huff, she took it out, scowling at the screen.

J. WILSON: _Hey Laura ..._

J. WILSON: _Laura seriously I need to know if you're there, this is important_

She sighed, ignoring her work for a moment. Wilson had taken a day off to get over a head cold, and he often spent his time finding ways to get on her nerves from afar. She leant back and typed: _Wilson, if this is another picture of my face photoshopped into a Renaissance painting, then I'm complaining to HR._

J. WILSON: _It's not. I'm so sorry but this is actually serious and you're really not gonna like it_

Her brow furrowed. _What?_ she asked.

J. WILSON: _So I went out for a coffee in that little shop by my place. I was just waiting to be served and I happened to spot Clara and um... well I should probably just show you_

There was a pause. She almost texted back to tell him to just spit it out, but the photo that arrived on her screen made her heart stop. It was taken from an awkward angle as Wilson clearly tried to be surreptitious. Clara was walking down the street, just beyond the cafe window, on the arm of a strikingly familiar man. He was platinum blond, straight-backed and distinguished, carrying an air of self-contented confidence. It was the increasingly infamous Godfather of Soho; Mr Fell himself.

Her fingers shook as she typed her response: _Fucking explain this._

J. WILSON: _I really don't know Laura, I'm just so sorry. I barely had time to get the photo, they just walked right by_

J. WILSON: _They were smiling and talking like friends. It looked like they knew each other_

Carlton's body flooded with panic. She buried her head in her hands, trying to regulate her breathing. There was no shadow of a doubt in her mind that her wife was in danger. Fell must have hunted her down, introduced himself as a friend... All for the sake of using Clara to twist her arm, just waiting for her to get too close. After a moment, her phone began to ring. She answered it without looking, holding it to her ear in silence, barring her steady breaths.

"Laura," Wilson said quietly. "Are you okay?"

"No," she bit back, swallowing thickly. "He... he knows about Clara. How did he find out about my _wife?"_

"Did you ever mention her?" he asked tentatively.

She thought for a moment. "God, I - I don't know. I can't remember," she said, grabbing a fistful of her hair. "Not by name, I'm certain. He must have found her and - oh god. Oh, fuck."

"What?" he said, tensing up.

"The fundraiser. The fundraiser I didn't go to, she met someone called Anthony," she said, feeling suddenly nauseous. "What if she met Anthony Crowley?"

He sucked in a sharp breath. "And that's who she's been talking to these last few weeks," he finished. It made sense; Anthony had the charm to draw her in, and Fell had the warmth to make her stay. "That means Zi must be Mr Fell."

"Then they're craftier than we gave them credit for. They must be building up to something, I can feel it. We went and stuck a target to our backs as soon as we confronted him about Clyde Murphy's release," she said, curling her lip as she remembered the gut-wrenching moment she'd seen him in the foyer. "From now on, we're both on high alert, got it? If Fell can make the Murphy siblings disappear... I don't think he'd think twice about going for any of us."

"I know. It freaked me out, seeing her arm in arm with him like that," he said uncomfortably. "You'd never even know he was dangerous if you didn't look beneath the surface."

"I'm going to call her now," she said. "When did you see them together?"

"About that..."

"What? James, what have you done?" she said, half standing from the table. 

"Don’t freak out, but... I'm following them now."

"Sorry to pile all this on you, Zi," Clara sighed, patting his arm apologetically as they walked through the park. "It's just good to get it off my chest."

"That's quite all right. I can see you love Laura very much, and she seems to feel the same," he said, pausing by the duck pond. "Are you sure you can't just talk to her?"

She sighed, leaning on his shoulder slightly. She felt very safe with him. "I don't think it would be fair. She really believes in what she does, and trying to get in the way of that just seems... cruel," she said. "I feel bad enough saying all this behind her back, it's just - I don't really trust our mutual friends. They're nice people, but who knows what they might take it upon themselves to tell her."

"I know the feeling," he said sympathetically.

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but I've kind of been... I don't know, hiding you and Anthony from Laura. She knows I see you quite regularly, but I'm anxious about the thought of you meeting her," she admitted. She watched the ducks drifting over the dark water to avoid having to look at his surprised expression. "You know I trust you both, with my life in fact, but my wife can be ruthless when she wants answers."

"All up to you, my dear, but I should like to meet her one of these days," he said, and left it at that. 

They settled into lighter topics and soon, Crowley came to join them. He'd refused to get out of bed before 10 AM, and told them to go on ahead and he'd meet them in the park. 

"Well, if it isn't sleeping beauty," Clara said loudly when she saw him coming up the path. 

He grinned. "What? Bored without me?" he said, pecking Aziraphale on the cheek as he reached them. "That's hard to believe. You two are always whispering like a couple of old women."

Aziraphale laughed softly. "I am old, dear," he said. "So are you."

"Touché," he said, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "So what's the plan, where are we going today?"

"I heard there's a street food event on this afternoon. It's within walking distance," she said. Aziraphale's face lit up immediately, and it was already decided. Crowley was too lovesick to argue. As they swapped around so the husbands stood arm in arm instead, they began to leave the park. They quickly became absorbed in conversation, and none of them noticed Wilson on the bench as the passed, with a hood pulled low over his eyes, which tracked them all the way to the gate. As they turned the corner, he sent a quick text, and moved to follow.

Aziraphale flitted between each stall, sampling the foods on offer with unapologetic relish. Clara was almost embarrassed to watch, but Crowley was deeply absorbed in every mouthful he took. Honestly, she felt like she was getting a tiny insight into their kinks as a couple, and it was bending her brain slightly to realise that they even had any (Aziraphale especially). Luckily, the moments were fleeting and she could often distract herself quite nicely by trying some food for herself. She nudged Crowley when they got away from the Moroccan stall.

"Is he really that into food, or...?" she asked, jabbing a thumb at his husband, who was following his nose to his next snack.

"Oh yeah," he replied, nodding, in no hurry to chase after him. "It makes date nights very easy. Give him a plate of crêpes and a glass of wine and he's yours."

He neglected to mention the six thousand years he'd spent also giving him time, devotion, patience and agonisingly undemonic love _before_ the wine and crêpes, but he figured she didn't need to know all the details. 

"Bet you it's not cheap wine, though," she said. "I've drunk the stuff you've got stashed away in the bookshop. It tastes more expensive than my car."

He arched a brow at her. "How expensive does your car taste?"

She punched him in the arm and laughed. "Shut up. You know what I meant," she said. She scanned the crowd, trying find the telltale white coat amongst the more casual foodies, when her eyes caught something else. For just a moment, she saw a familiar face, which sharply turned away the moment she recognised him.

"James...?" she called, straying from Crowley's side. He drew his arms close to his body, trying to ignore her. "James, I know it's you. What are you doing?"

He sheepishly turned, pulling his hood down. "Hi Clara. I just... y'know, heard about the food stalls," he said, looking anywhere but in her eyes. 

She heard Crowley rejoin her. "Hey, police boy. Fancy seeing you here," he said. 

Clara glanced between them both. "You've met?"

"Sure. Baby-face here has come sniffing around the bookshop plenty of times. He and his partner seem to think we're up to something in there," he said with a careless shrug. He gave a wolfish smirk. "I'm not saying we aren't, I'm just saying that's private business between a man and his husband."

Wilson cringed at the innuendo in his tone. "I've seen the evidence. I know what I think."

"You've got to be kidding me. These two?" she said, crossing her arms. "Laura must be losing her mind. I bet she put you up to this, didn't she?"

"Well - no, but - she didn't... she just didn't stop me," he mumbled, fiddling with the drawstring on his hood like an embarrassed teenager. 

"Wait wait wait, where does Laura come into this? Have I missed something?" Crowley cut in, waving a hand to bat his way back into the conversation. "I thought we were just talking about getting tailed by a detective."

"Laura is his partner. She's a detective, too," she explained, gesturing at Wilson, who tried to hiss and make her shut up, to no avail. Crowley's jaw dropped. 

_"No,"_ he gasped, turning back to shout across the thoroughfare. "Hey angel! Get over here! You'll never believe what I just found out!"

Wilson's heart dropped. Aziraphale happily trotted over, delicately wiping the edges of his mouth with a paper napkin. "Yes dear? Oh!" he said, recognising the man in front of him. "Mr Wilson, how lovely. How is the investigating?"

"It's ongoing," he said tightly.

"You remember Detective Carlton, angel?" Crowley said, nudging him in the ribs. "Her full name's Laura Carlton."

As he spoke, he gestured broadly toward Carla. It took a moment for it to click. "You mean - all this time, we've been talking about - ?" he said in surprise.

"My wife, the detective, yes. Glad we're all on the same page, finally," Clara butted in peevishly. She jabbed a finger at Wilson's chest. "Listen here, James, I'm very disappointed in you. I thought you were better than this, just - just spying on me for Laura."

"That's not what this is, Clara, please," he said desperately. He flinched hard as Crowley wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze. "Laura's just worried. She's been worried for weeks, about you hanging around with two strange man she's never met, and now - "

"Well!" Aziraphale said, highly offended. "Strange men indeed!"

"Should've known. She can't let me do anything without freaking out at the first sign of anything happening - and you can tell Laura that if she thinks Anthony and Aziraphale are criminals, then she ought to give up her badge, because I don't believe it for a second," she said fiercely. "It's one thing to be worried, it's another to start throwing ridiculous accusations at my friends."

"But - "

"No, I've had it, James. This is the last straw," she snapped. Her voice softened, becoming fragile and wavering. "I can't believe you _spied_ on me."

"I'm so sorry," he said, hanging his head remorsefully. "Please don't blame Laura for this. It was my idea, she just went along with it."

"That's bad enough. I just... I can't face her right now, James," she said, exhaustion finally breaking over her. She ran a hand across her face. "Let her know I'll be home tomorrow, but I'll find somewhere else to spend the night. I have a few things I need to think over."

There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the babble of the crowds around them. Crowley cleared his throat. "You can stay at our place, if you like," he said, looking to Aziraphale for confirmation.

"Yes, of course," he said, nodding. "My door is always open for a friend."

She nodded, relaxing slightly against Crowley's shoulder. "Thank you, Zi, and you Anthony," she said. She shot a sidelong glance at Wilson. "D'you mind if we go now...?"

"Car's this way," Crowley replied, beginning to direct her.

"Clara, no, please listen to me," Wilson begged, chasing them as they gently urged her away, out of the maze of food stalls. He tried to get closer, but was immediately repelled by the potent aura of Don't-Touch-Her-Or-Me* that Crowley was giving off. "They're dangerous, you have to believe me. Just come with me, speak to Laura, we can sort this out."

*And-If-You-Even-Look-At-My-Husband-You're-A-Dead-Man

"They about as dangerous as a pair of old socks, James," she said as the Bentley came into view. Crowley snorted quietly in laughter. "I'm coming home tomorrow. Just let me have some space."

He gave another indignant cry, moving toward her, when Aziraphale stepped into his path. Wilson bumped into his chest, and there was moment of incomprehension before he jolted back like he'd been stung. Crowley froze, watching the interaction like a hawk. He looked from face to face - Aziraphale's adamant stare, Crowley's watchful scowl and Clara's quiet hurt - and realised there was nothing he could do. He swallowed hard, and looked expectantly at the mob boss.

"Now listen here," Aziraphale said haughtily, looking down his nose at the younger man. "Clara has made her decision. As her friend, I think it prudent that you respect that, wouldn't you agree?"

He opened his mouth, finding no words on his tongue. He wanted to bite back, make a sarcastic retort, grab Clara's hand and sprint away to play the hero... but the glare coming from behind Crowley's sunglasses burned like a furnace, warning him not to do anything stupid. There was no doubt left in his mind in the role he had to play. This whole lifestyle was a couple's affair, obviously; their mob was their baby. Fell gave the orders, Crowley carried them through. Marriage was a hell of a way to ensure loyalty from your head enforcer, he had to admit. 

"Yeah. Sure," he relented, backing away and lowering his gaze, as if avoiding eye contact with a wild animal who was just waiting for him to make a false move. 

"We'll look after her. She's in no danger," Crowley spoke up. Wilson shot a sharp glance from under his brow, but to his surprise, he found no malice in those sharp features. He held his gaze for a long moment. 

Eventually, Clara scoffed, rolling her eyes at the standoff. Unable to breathe, Wilson watched her climb into the back seat of the car, becoming a mere outline against through tinted glass. No more words were spoken as Fell and Crowley joined her inside; the muffled sound of Queen bled through the door, overcome by the roar of the engine as the Bentley pulled out into the street.

Laura sat motionless on her sofa, one hand pressed hard over her mouth. Her eyes stung. Wilson had told her everything. "She's with them. She's in his house," she said thinly, her unfocused gaze directed at the carpet.

"I know, Laura, but - but they didn't know," he said, pacing restlessly across her living room. The sun was going down rapidly, spilling pink light over London. "They didn't know who she was. Until today, they had no idea you were married to her."

"That's worse," she said hoarsely. She wanted nothing more than to get in the car and gun it to Soho, but fear had paralysed her. They held all the cards, and she couldn't afford to make any sudden movements. "She was safe until now."

"That's what I'm saying!" he said, both hands tangled in his hair. His breathing was laboured, still straining from the last of his cold. "If they didn't know before now, that means that they actually do like her. Anthony said he'd look after her. He's a mob enforcer, Laura, do you know what that means?"

She cringed. "What?" she snapped. Panic had dulled her intellect.

"It means she's safe as hell. She's got mob protection," he said, manic optimism dancing in his eyes. "By some stupid fluke, she's made some of the most powerful friends in London."

Laura took a moment to process that. At first, she railed against it, thinking of ways she could convince Clara to withdraw from them completely. For a split second, she seriously considered selling their house and bolting from London altogether. As she took a deep breath, her mind slowed down long enough for her to catch a moment of clarity. If Clara was under Fell's protection... Laura would never really have to worry for her safety again. She was a woman of morals and principles, it was true, but she was also a woman of love. She'd sacrifice anything for the sake of the woman she loved, her beliefs included, though she wasn't sure Clara always grasped just how dedicated Laura really was. That was at least partially Laura's own fault; she had never made a show of grand romantic gestures or the like, always preferring to show her love in quiet domestic moments. On reflection, maybe she ought to start. 

She nodded slowly, rubbing her hands together as a chill ran over her skin. "I hope you're right, James," she whispered. She looked up at him. "Go home."

He let out an indignant cry. "Not a chance, not while something could still happen."

"Anything could happen, at any time, but even if it did right now, there'd be nothing we could do," she said. "I want to be here when Clara arrives tomorrow morning. I think... I think I owe her an apology."

Crowley drove Clara back to her house the next morning alone. It had been a slow start, and Aziraphale had made an effort to put a nice breakfast together for her to enjoy. "The most important meal of the day," he'd said with a smile, pushing a plate under her nose. He knew she was in for a rough day once she left the shop.

"You decided what you're going to say to her?" Crowley asked, held up by traffic. Ordinarily, this was unheard of for the Bentley, but he got the impression she wasn't in a huge rush to get home.

"Maybe. I don't know how she'll react when I get in. She might be furious," she said with a shrug. "I just don't want this to spiral out of control. I love her, and... well, sometimes I wish it really was just as simple as that."

He gave an embittered chuckle, revving the engine as the car began to move again. "Trust me, I know what you mean," he said. "Me and Aziraphale have been through our fair share of times like this. It'll pass, if you're willing to make it work."

"Really?" she said, turning to fix him with a wide-eyed stare. They had always seemed so soppy and head-over-heels for each other, it was hard to imagine them arguing any worse than their habitual toothless bickering. "What could've brought that on?"

"Oh, you know. The powers of fate, cosmic forces, the end of the world," he said, rolling his wrist casually and shrugging it off. "Usual stuff."

She rolled her eyes at him. "All right, be cryptic about it. I'll find out eventually," she said. "We both know Zi can't keep a secret."

"You'd be surprised. He kept me secret for a long time," he replied, now grinning mischievously. "It was a long road to bring us here. It was worth it though, in the end."

She sighed, leaning against the window. "You'll have to tell me your story one day, you and him both," she said. "I feel like I might learn a thing or two."

"Probably. I tell you what, I'll make you a deal: wait until you're on your deathbed, and then I'll tell you," he said, turning onto her street and slowing to a crawl.

"What makes you so certain you won't die first?" she said, giving a short laugh.

He grinned toothily. "Only the good die young," he said evasively. He pointed over the steering wheel, breaking off from their conversation. "This your place?"

"Yeah, that's it. Thanks for the lift, Anthony," she said, rubbing a hand over her face. "And for letting me stay. I'll have to make you and Zi an apple pie at some point to say thank you."

"Careful, that's a slippery slope. If he likes it, you'll never get rid of him," he warned with a smile. "Good luck with the missus. I'm sure she'll come around."

"Hope so. See you soon, Anthony," she said, getting out of the car. 

She made her way up the drive, eyeing Laura's car on her way. She was definitely at home. Unlocking the door, she stepped into the hallway, shutting it behind her. As she tossed her keys into the dish by the door, she heard footsteps thundering down the stairs. She barely had time to turn around before Laura threw her arms around her, squeezing tightly with her face buried in the crook of her neck.

"Woah! Laura, hey," she said, hugging back after a moment of surprise. She was mumbling something into her shoulder, over and over again like a prayer. It sounded very much like _I love you._ She pulled back. "We need to talk, Laura."

She nodded, shaking and breathless with relief. Clara was surprised to find herself gently guiding her toward the living room, laying down with her on the sofa. For a few minutes, they lay in one another's arms, feeling the familiar weight and warmth of one another amongst the cushions. 

"Clara..." she said eventually, sitting up slightly to look her in the eye. "I'm so sorry. It was wrong to - to let Wilson follow you. I know that. I'm not - I'm not making excuses for myself, but I was worried."

"About that," she said, frowning up at her, her head laid on the armrest. "Why are you so scared of Anthony and Aziraphale?"

"That's a story to tell. You know, I'm really not supposed to tell you about ongoing cases," she said with a breathy laugh. Clara raised an eyebrow with a scowl. "... but I'll make an exception here, I think."

She took a deep breath. "I first met Mr Fell when he was a witness to a burglary. That doesn't really matter, anyway, because the next time he turned up on my radar was when he became a suspect in an organised crime case," she explained, absent-mindedly playing with her hair as she spoke. "We got his and Anthony's names from a man we were questioning at the time. There were rumours going around about mobsters going into his shop and vanishing, and their families vanishing, never to be seen again. Even the Murphy siblings were frightened of him."

Her brow furrowed. "Rumours?" she said incredulously. 

"Talk of mob executions; at least thirty, in the space of about a month, that we've heard of," she clarified. "He has a snake in there, Wilson's seen it. They say it's how he disposed of the bodies."

"So you're telling me he fed thirty people to one poor snake in a single month?" she said flatly. 

"Look, that's not the point. Wilson went in there undercover a while ago, and he found a note from the Murphy siblings promising to stay out of his territory and apologising to him," she said. "We assume they interfered with his operations. We caught Clyde Murphy himself skulking around there one night on a stakeout, and we managed to arrest him on some solid charges. Hardly a day later, Anthony and Fell were there, bailing him out."

Clara hummed thoughtfully, taking Laura's hand in her own. "Okay. I see how you could think that they're dangerous from that," she admitted. "But let me tell you what I've seen of them."

"Honey - "

"Hear me out," she said, pressing a finger lightly to her lips. Obligingly, she fell silent. "I met them at a charity fundraiser. I'll be honest, I thought Anthony was shifty at first, but it turns out he was just nervous in a crowded place without his husband close-by. Not exactly criminal material, if you ask me. We got talking, and they donated a hell of a lot to charity that night. In the time I've spent with them since then, they've been nothing but soft, friendly and a bit hapless, honestly. They have good taste in wine, and they've been telling me I ought to talk to you properly about our marriage for weeks."

"Our marriage?" she said, nervously breaking the silence.

She smiled softly, brushing her thumb over her cheek. "Don't worry. We'll get to that, I promise, it's not so bad really," she said. She hadn't felt so close to Laura in weeks, and the warmth of her love was like rediscovering a precious memento. Now she had it so near again, she never wanted to let it go. "They're good men, Laura. I know you've got your evidence, but I really believe there's a more reasonable explanation. I once saw Aziraphale scream because he thought he'd squished a ladybird by mistake. Trust me, the man can't kill."

She laughed softly. "We might have to agree to disagree. I still think they're up to something, but... I'm considering dropping the investigation anyway."

"You are?" she said, sitting up slightly in surprise. "That's not like you."

"Listen, I'm just thinking... maybe it won't be so bad, having a pair of mob bosses around," she said, still slightly uncomfortable with the words coming out of her mouth. "They think quite highly of you, right?"

"I'd say so."

"Then I don't think they're a threat. Actually, I... I'm sort of hoping they might look after you a bit. Protect you, I mean," she said. She pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You mean too much to me, Clara, I... I'd put up with anything if it makes you safer."

"I still think you're overthinking this," she said teasingly.

"Agree to disagree," she repeated, kissing her gently. "Now what was this about our marriage...?"

Aziraphale wandered about the shop, a cup of tea in one hand and a pocket-sized book in the other. Crowley, currently snake-shaped, watched him lazily from the countertop. There was always a patch of sunlight shining right on the counter at this time of day, and he liked to take full advantage. Just as Aziraphale returned to the desk to set his cup down beside his head, the bell jingled. He looked up sharply.

"Uh... hi," said Laura, hesitating in the doorway. "Mind if I come in?"

"Ah. Official business, is it?" he said, setting his book down as well. He braced himself to be arrested.

"No. It's not," she said, letting the door swing shut at her back. She came further in, eyeing the snake on the desk warily. "I wanted to... to apologise, and let you know I've closed the investigation into you and your husband."

He straightened up in surprise, sharing a pleased glance with the snake, which also lifted its head. Her brow creased slightly in confusion. He was looking at it like it was a person, as if it understood...

"So you've finally realised we aren't criminals. Thank the Lord," he said, breaking her train of thought and pressing a hand over his heart.

"No, I still think you're in it up to your eyeballs, but that doesn't matter to me anymore," she said flatly, a flash of her detective face shining through her conciliatory expression. "If Clara's involved, I'm willing to take a step back. The last thing I want is for her to get hurt."

"You know we would never lay a finger on her, detective," he replied, pouting slightly at the insinuation, and laying a hand on the snake's coils as if including him in this. Crowley flicked out his tongue in agreement.

"That's the other reason I'm leaving you be. She put forward a pretty good case in your favour, so I've decided to trust you, at least with her," she said with an irritated sigh. She wagged a finger at him. "You'd better not make me regret that."

"Of course," he said patiently. Crowley began to slither up onto his shoulders, and Laura's eyes tracked him nervously as he moved. 

"Oh, and she said I should tell you that we had that talk," she said reluctantly, crossing her arms. "I'm going to stop staying late at work from now on, and she's going to try and speak her mind a bit more when something's worrying her."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, draping half of Crowley's body back over his shoulder so he didn't slip off. "Shall we consider ourselves on good terms again, then, detective?"

She fixed him with an impassive stare for a long moment before a hint of a smile twisted her lips. "Call me Laura," she said, reaching over to shake his hand. "But don't forget, just because we have an agreement, it doesn't make us the same."

He smirked. "Yes."

"We're still against each other, really," she added, humour tinging her voice. "Police officer, mob boss... we aren't friends."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," he replied, a smidge over-dramatically, playing along. This was a dance he was _very_ familiar with. "We're practically hereditary enemies."

"I wouldn't hesitate to arrest you," she continued, now with a broad grin plastered across her face.

"And I'd have you chucked in the Thames as soon as look at you," he said playfully, scratching underneath Crowley's chin.

"Glad we're clear on that," she said, readjusting her jacket nonchalantly. "Clara's making a lasagna tonight, by the way, and she always makes too much. Fancy dropping in?"

"We would love to," he replied, beaming. 

"See you at 8, then, Mr Fell," she said, making for the door. "And leave the snake at home!"

He chuckled, saying nothing, choosing to simply wave her off as the door swung shut behind her. The shop was empty again. Crowley tilted his head toward his husband, nudging his jaw with his snout. "Does that mean I'm not invited?" he asked.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Little Clarity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266953) by [Evillullaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evillullaby/pseuds/Evillullaby)




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